Free The Black Cats by Monica Shaughnessy

the
cucumber trellis, advancing unnoticed. Sweet horror! Snip’s exhumed body lay on
the ground near Eddy’s feet. Carrion insects speckled the tom’s fur, causing the
carcass to writhe with activity. My companion leaned closer to compare the rope
in his hand—Mr. Fitzgerald’s rope—to the one around Snip’s neck.
    “It is
a match,” he whispered to himself. “A perfect match.” His shirt reeked of spirits, different from the ones he’d drunk at
Jolley’s this afternoon, and his cravat dangled round his neck. “A neighbor is
responsible, I am certain. But what perverse imp moved this person to kill Heaven’s
finest?” He tugged his hair, lost in thought, then said: “To do wrong for
wrong’s sake only. To give in to the soul’s unfathomable longing to vex itself.”
    Judging
from his ink-smeared cheek, he’d abandoned a writing project for this grim undertaking , so to speak. My hunt had stoked
his imagination, yet a narrow path lay between satisfying my own desires and
satisfying his. The job of muse is a delicate one. I found that out during my
Glass Eye Killer caper. Introduce too much inspiration too soon, and I risked
losing my charge down a drunken, rambling trail from which he might never
return.
    I approached
him.
    “Catters?”
Eddy said. “Have you come for another bite?” He dangled the rope in front of
me, tossing it aside when I took no interest. “What else do you know, you
crafty thing? I suspect much.” He appraised me with what I took for admiration.
“I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat.”
    I considered
Snip’s entry and wondered if it would take Eddy too far from his story, to a
place beyond my reach. I did not have long to think. The back door opened, and Sissy
entered the garden with an easy, elegant air. She opened her lips to speak but stopped
when she realized what he’d done. Even her fever-bright cheeks could not
sustain color with this new discovery. Legs unsteady, she took a single step
toward her husband. “Edgar? What’s this?”
    “Sissy?”
Still kneeling, Eddy turned and spread his arms, trying to hide the cat carcass.
“I-I thought you were inside mending. Or knitting. Or mending your knitting.”
    I trotted
to her and rubbed the length of her skirt, delighting in the whishhh of fabric.
    “And I thought you were writing,” she said to
him. She leaned to touch my head. “We both changed our minds, it seems. Though
what yours concocted is disturbing, to say the least. Tell me, dear, have you
been drinking?”
    “I am
as straight as judges.” He leaned a little to the left.
    “I
see.” She put her hands on her hips. “Why have you dug up the cat?”
    “To
check on him, of course.” Eddy offered a queasy smile. “Still dead.”
    Sissy took
another step, alighting on Snip’s page by accident. She bent and retrieved it,
giving the entry a quick glance. The meaning of the words played across her
face, lifting the corner of her mouth. I had not stolen the clue in vain. When
she finished reading, she looked at me the way Eddy had, with approval.
    “What
have you got?” Eddy asked her.
    “Nothing.
An old market list. Mother must have lost it.” She folded the page and stuck it
down her dress front. I thought it an odd place for a carryall, but humans never
ceased to surprise me. “Why don’t I leave you to…whatever you were doing. I have
an errand to run.”
    “An
errand? At this hour? It must be six o’clock.” Eddy rose and dusted the dirt
from his pants.
    “It’s seven.”
Sissy snapped her fingers, and I trailed her out of the front garden. “I still
have daylight and will only be a block away. Do not worry.” She latched the
gate behind us. “Mother is polishing the furniture, so you needn’t disturb her
with my comings and goings. And for heaven’s sake, Edgar Poe, wash your hands!”
    ***
    To my
surprise, Sissy and I headed down Green Street instead of toward Mr.
Fitzgerald’s shop. She’d left without her bonnet and